


Queen of the Golden River

by Shachaai



Series: For A Muse Of Fire [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Opulence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-07 13:18:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5457842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shachaai/pseuds/Shachaai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hong Kong, Peking, Calcutta, Suez, Paris and London. 1859-1861. It shouldn’t be so difficult to throw a grand Christmas party for everyone, should it, not if you are the glorious empire that rules the world?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recently, the USB drive containing all my WIP stories and plans suffered something of a meltdown, so I’m vainly trying to get it mended. While waiting on a miracle, this was the only one of my WIP stories where 99% of my notes were handwritten, so it sort of decided what would be my festive fanfic for the year for me. Luckily, it _is_ a festive fanfic - though a very strange one to start with. Sorry, sorry. Merry Christmas, it’s the Second Opium War. orz;;;
> 
>  
> 
> With thanks to Hitsu for a pre-posting readover/moral support, and everyone on skype and twitter who has had to suffer listening to me go on about late 1850s and early 1860s fashions and history.
> 
>  
> 
> Despite the fruk ship tag, this is _not_ a fruk fic - in the sense that, while the pairing is incredibly important to the story, it is not what the story revolves around. There will be other ship and character tags added as they become relevant.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for some pretty gross imperialist/racist/classist ideologies at times, and hinted-at substance abuse.

_July, 1859_  
_England’s residence, City of Victoria, in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong_

 

They drink kirsch as a change from whisky, a bitter little drink that England pours and serves in glasses that could very well masquerade as some of her thimbles, crystal and clear liquid gleaming as they catch the evening sunlight in her hands as she hands one to France. The glass is cool to touch when he sits upright in his borrowed chair and takes it - but not chilled, and he lifts one querying brow.

“You don’t serve it cold?” France has drunk kirsch with both Prussia and Austria before, and is used to the cold of the alcohol burning his palms through its glass.

England seems amused at the question, settling back into the chair she has been sitting in for their discussion that afternoon. In the comfort of one of her own homes (and to match the cropped-close cut of her hair), she is wearing casual male attire - though her masculine sack coat has been retired whilst they are off the battlefield or not publically at business, the heavy folds of one of her feminine shawls bunching up at her shirt’s elbows instead, cushioning around her. “The good stuff is served at room temperature.”

England would likely know. Since their string of little… imperial disagreements around fifty years back, England has grown distressingly fond of certain _German_ tastes. She always had the predilection for them, her early people mixing with the blood of Germans and Scandinavians well before Normandy - and France with her - had set about reminding the little wild kingdom to the west of Latin civilisation, but her choice of allies in the wars, and the shift in her royalty to those with Hanover blood, has made many things German _popular_ , her head thoroughly turned by terrible influences.

Leaning back again, France mulls over the drink in his hand, the cherry and almond vapours strong in his nose. It reminds him of Austrian cake, though he knows for a fact that the kirsch will not and should not be so sweet. (He much prefers his wines.) “I am quite sure that Prussia served his cold.”

“You think Prussia gives _you_ his decent alcohol?” _Touché_. England shrugs, lifting her glass to take a large, careless swallow of all its contents before setting it down again on the side-table beside her. “An observation.”

France makes a face at her, feeling the sting of its implications. “Please observe more _gently_ , mon fer et mon feu. You could do yourself an injury with that sharp tongue of yours.”

“Pray do not think my tongue so unskilled.” England goes for the bottle of kirsch again, this time taking it back with her to her seat. However, she pauses before pouring herself another helping, the lid unstoppered in her hands. “Actually, do not think about my tongue at _all_ , if you please. Who knows what filth your thoughts might contaminate it with?”

Naturally, France protests this condemnation of his _unsulliable_ thoughts and good name. “ _I_ was not the one who first brought filth into this conversation.”

“Where you go, filth follows.” England shrugs again and begins to pour, the scent of cherries, almonds and sharp alcohol increasing further in the room. Like Black Forest gâteau - France has grasped the name in his mind at last. _Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte_. “And as you are, regrettably, a part of this conversation…”

“I can see no-one _else_ to entertain your acerbity.” France gestures to the otherwise bereft drawing room about them with his glass, the bright evening sunlight pouring in across the polished wood of the floor, the large, rich red Indian rug upon it all but glowing in its rays. The walls are light, the furniture is velvet-dark, and the artwork and ornaments adorning the place are a mix of polished silver, sentimental watercolours and exquisite Chinese porcelain. Like the rest of the house upon Victoria hill, the room is very much England’s design, England’s domain, and few are the brave souls that dare enter unbidden into the lion’s den. “ _Russie_ declined your gracious invitation two years ago to join us in our little escapade - no doubt the great bear is still licking his wounds from Crimea -”

England scowls, and the bottle of kirsch goes down so hard the side-table rattles. “Whilst profiting from our work weakening China so he can claim those lands along the Asur.”

France waves away the comment, airily unconcerned. Threatening war on a second front when the enemy has already been weakened by primary belligerents is a valid technique of war, and they have all used it to the full extent of its underhandedness before. “‘E will come around when it suits him most. He wishes to be _friends_ with the glorious _moi_ \- and who could blame him; I am a gift to this world -”

England snorts, but manages to refrain from uttering anything rude.

“And cautious with _you_ , since you are…” France pauses, glass still outstretched in his hand, since too many adjectives crowd him at once.

“ _What_ ,” England says, her voice flat, posture demure, and smiling _pleasantly._

The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland is called the workshop of the world these days, exporting one fifth of all the world’s industrial goods. England, principal among her siblings, and thus principal in the British Empire, sprawling hegemon of the world, controls the force and the wealth of trade, travel and communication routes, dominates trade with China ever since the Opium War, oversees all trade with the recently named British Raj... All roads lead to London, armies marching to the sound of cannons and the clink of coins, and all seas are patrolled by the endless ships of the British Royal Navy.

(England had used to be so sweet. She had used to be so _small_. Of course, she had still kicked France in the shins in those days when he had told her he was going to make her wear shoes and comb her hair, make a _civilised_ lady out of her so that she could be a _proper_ subordinate to the mighty Kingdom of France, but she had usually forgiven him by the end of the day, once he had vowed he would never speak to her or bring her candied violets again.

Now -)

It is better to be in an alliance with England. If it is not an alliance with her, sooner or later, but quite inevitably, it will be war.

France shrugs, and brings his kirsch back to himself for a burning swallow. “As always, ma _petite_ , you are trouble.” For now, it is a compliment. “Even young Amerique thinks so; despite declining your open hand to join our little war, his commodore broke his neutrality with China for you, defending your ill-fated little convoy as it escaped the Taku Forts last month -”

“France.”

“And what _were_ that commodore’s words? They were so sweet, how _could_ I forget them -”

“ _France.”_

“Ah -” France’s mouth will taste of dark cherries for the rest of the night, sharp and sour with a knife’s edge slice of sweet. “‘ _Blood is thicker than water._ ’ I guess all little boys cannot bear it if _maman_ is made upset by souls other than them, hm?”

England’s knuckles have gone white about her glass. “Ally or not, I _will_ throw you out.”

France affects horror, clutching at his heart so hard the buttons of his waistcoat press firm into his palm. “You would abandon me on the muddy streets of Hong Kong?”

“I’m sure you could find some brothel to fall into for the night. Better yet - _go back to the military encampment in Kau Lung._ ”

“When you have an adequately comfortable house right here, just across the harbour?”

England twitches at his _adequately_. “You needn’t think -”

What France need or needn’t think is never said; England’s words are disturbed by the creak of the just-open drawing room’s door, a pale, small hand appearing around the frame.

“- Leon?”

There is no reply save the fingers of that little hand tightening their grip and the shuffling sound of small feet.

“ _Leon_ ,” England says again, her attention thoroughly diverted from France as she sets down her drink and leans forward in her seat. “Where is your nurse? Your governess?”

A telling silence.

“Oh,” England sighs, the long exhale of an adult who is resigned to this situation already due to its frequent repetition, and stretches out her hand, her shawl slipping behind her, “never mind that for now. Come here.”

The drawing room’s door creaks again and a small boy - Leon - pads in, so young in appearance he must be barely out of skirts. His shirt and loose trousers are immaculately buttoned up but his bootlaces are trailing the ground, his short, messy hair as sleekly black and ruffled as a crow’s feathers.

England immediately sets about retying the boy’s boots, clicking her tongue until Leon obligingly lifts his foot for her to redo the laces on her lap, mother-henning a weary _really, you are quite old enough by now to do this yourself_.

Leon nods along with her words but does not seem at all interested in the scolding, his gaze wandering away from England’s deft fingers and the pattern of her knots to the third occupant of the room, treating France to a long few seconds of meeting the child’s curiously _assessing_ golden almond eyes.

Eyes too old for his face.

A Nation, then. More likely - a colony.

Asian war plunder.

With Leon’s bootlaces apparently tied once more to her satisfaction England allows the boy to return both his feet to the ground, one of her freed hands going instead to lay possessively firm in the space between Leon’s shoulder and nape, turning him, first, in France’s direction, and then holding the child in place.

“Frog,” England looked back to France, her voice as dismissive as if they hadn’t been interrupted but its ire all faded away for now, “this is Hong Kong, whom we call Leon. Leon,” another squeeze to the young Hong Kong’s shoulder, the boy lifting his head from where he’d been studying the carpet underfoot, “this is France, the Second French Empire. You may call him Mr. Bonnefoy in public - or _Monsieur_ Bonnefoy, if he is being particular. Greet him politely.”

Hong Kong doesn’t say anything at first, but the way England stiffens warningly at his silence eventually prompts a rather plaintive _glance_ from Hong Kong back at his imperial guardian, the murmuring of a conflicted: _“...Stranger.”_

_Don’t talk to strangers._

England softens again, understanding the issue. “...France is passing strange, owlet, I shall grant you that, but I have introduced him to you. That means he is no longer a stranger, but an acquaintance. And we must greet our acquaintances, even when we do not want to.”

Hong Kong nods slowly, absorbing the lesson, as (fluffy and as) ponderous about it as the little owl England had named him for. After a few moments, his attention returns to France - and the colony has such _focus_ in that gaze for a child! This child-Nation, spoils from England’s last war with China, has the best/worst characteristics of _both_ his ‘parent’ Nations, to have so soon mastered the hundred-yard stare. “Sir.”

“ _Bonsoir_ ,” France offers absently, too busy mulling the disaster that will become of the world should all of the young ones of the Empire learn to be so shrewd.

Hong Kong just stares at him.

“...It means _good evening_ ,” England explains briefly to her charge, filling the pause between them. “France,” France shifts a little more of his attention back to his hostess, too wary of her _not_ to, “he has little French, as yet. He can blurt out a few tongues of Eastern nonsense, but of the civilised languages he speaks only English and what Portuguese he acquires through friendship with Macau.”

That is a _disgrace_. France frowns, vexed that his not-so-little-anymore neighbour should not put the acquisition of his beautiful and _globally important_ language at the top of the list for her children’s schooling. “It should be a priority.”

“A priority, perhaps,” England shrugs, “but not a _necessity_ , not anymore.”

Oh, _now_ England is just needling him for the pleasure of it.

France sniffs. “The fact you do not think beauty is a necessity in this world says _much_ about you, Angleterre.”

“There will always be beauty. However, since _French_ hardly falls under that heading -”

A knock at the drawing room’s door stills France’s retort before it can part from his lips - and ends the swivelling of Hong Kong’s small head between England and France, England and France, like he is watching the returns at a tennis match, the motion only noticeable to the previously occupied France now that it has ceased.

“...Nurse Pikes.” England greets the human woman now at the door tersely, clearly vexed at having been caught mid-sentence.

‘Nurse Pikes’ rises from her polite curtsey quite smoothly, bearing the displeasure of her employer with no outward reaction other than a slightly strained downward twitch to her mouth. “My apologies for disturbing you, madam. I came to retrieve young Master Leon, since he is already late for his reading of the bible with Miss Nicholson.”

An empress with a shorn crown in her drawing room chair, England regards the other woman coolly. “How strange it is that he should have managed to wander away from both of you, when one or both of you should be with him always, and thus manage to be late.”

The nurse curtsies again, deeper than the first. “I apologise again, madam. After supper Master Leon announced that he had left his bible in the night nursery, and left to go fetch it. I continued clearing away our supper, and Miss Nicholson with preparing her lesson - but the young master did not return at all, and was not in the night nursery when I went to fetch him.”

England shifts her unimpressed look from the nurse to her colony, her thumb tapping pointedly against the side of Hong Kong’s neck. “And _was_ your bible in the night nursery, Leon? I do not see it with you.”

Looking back at his guardian, Hong Kong’s gaze is wide and _guileless_ in the way that means they are making up everything that comes out of their mouth. “I forgot it.”

Unfortunately for Hong Kong, England mastered the same technique over a millennium ago. “ _Naturally_ ,” she says, crisp as a cold snap. But it would not _do_ to upbraid one of her colonies for lying, not in front of a guest, so instead she settles for a tone of faint reproof. “Then tonight, you shall simply have to share Miss Nicholson’s bible with her. After you have apologised of course - both to Nurse _and_ to Miss Nicholson for the delay to your lesson and having to search for you.”

“But -”

England continues, cutting Hong Kong’s words short. “And tomorrow afternoon, instead of your play in the garden, you will go with Nurse and find your bible. Perhaps that will better teach you how to keep track of time and your belongings, hm?”

There is not a great deal of change in Hong Kong’s expression, but the cast of the boy’s face shifts minutely from _neutral_ to _displeased_. He still stretches up on the toes of his feet to press a brief kiss to England’s cheek when she motions for him to do so, accepting the gentle push upon his back from his guardian in his nurse’s direction and offering an even scanter bow in farewell to the two empires in the room.

“...Ma’am,” he tries again, with one last glance to England.

“I shall come see you at bedtime, Leon,” says England, busy rearranging her shawl once more.

Nurse Pikes leads Hong Kong away with a nudging hand, and France goes back to nursing his drink, watching the sunlight shine through the clear spirit in his glass, scattering like nostalgia over his skin and clothes. “...You know, ma fille, I can still remember the time when we were small that you deliberately dropped your Latin prayer book down the privy, trying to get out of having to study it.”

England pauses, and for a moment France thinks she might blush - but she merely continues rearranging herself in her seat, not looking at him. “Your memory appears to be failing you in your old age, frog. That wasn’t me.”

It had _definitely_ been her; France can still remember the lecture they had _both_ received about desecrating the word of God because of her actions, and England’s pronounced sulk with everyone for three days afterwards. (She had come out of it just to ask France why God must write _all_ the books, when He tells only very dull stories. Overheard by the king’s confessor, they had both gotten _another_ lecture, this time on blasphemy and the many levels of Hell.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

England doesn’t send France back to Kau Lung for the night. She doesn’t even send him to the main guest room after they retire, though one of the maids has long since prepared the bed there for him. Her room more than suffices - it has the most comfortable bed, anyway -, England standing at her window in her white cotton nightgown, her face tending towards pensive above a pretty froth trim of Irish lace.

Clad in his own nightshirt, France joins her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and letting England rest her own folded arms atop them. Over her shoulder, out the window, he can see down the hill England’s home is built upon, over the city (still affectionately called Queenstown) sprawled beneath, and out to the many, many lights bobbing on all the merchant ships and warships in Victoria Harbour. Further beyond that, across the narrow stretch of water, is Kau Lung, and the campfires and lanterns of their fighting men ashore.

Hong Kong has developed a great deal in the two decades the British have owned it. First there was nothing but fishermen’s huts, a few ships in the water nearby and the British flag. Now there are merchants (British and Portuguese and American), warehouses, homes and shops, military grounds, brothels and churches. Social clubs, inns, bars and restaurants, and muddy roads to pick your way through between. Day after day, the landscape changes.

Day after day -

England sighs, her chest pushing against the cage of France’s body before deflating in a rush.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?” France asks her quietly, tucking his nose somewhere under England’s jaw and feeling the short strands of her hair tickle his cheek. She needs to take better care of her hair; all this suddenly chopping it short to run off and play a man for mortals, hot air and humid air and saltwater and sun, has dyed it a purer shade of gold, but dried it out like wheat awaiting the autumnal scythe.

“ _Rien_ ,” England murmurs in reply - which is patently and obviously untrue, so France _hmmm_ s in her ear until she obliges him. “Just -” England leans back against him, her body warm through the cloth between them. “Crimea. Turkey. Russia and the Baltics. India. China and here. It would be nice to spend Christmas at _home_ this year.”

...It’s _July_. December is months away, but then… It does take over a month to get home from India, never mind the more eastern colonies, and they _have_ had a busy decade, haven’t they? Gone in every direction but home. But the larger an empire is, the busier it will be - and England has the largest empire of all of them. At the moment.

France hums again, agreeing. He misses Paris. “Missing your family?”

England snorts, tipping her head to press her cheek companionably against his. Oh, she _must_ be feeling nostalgic. “Missing my _library_. God knows what state it and the rest of the house will be in when I return.”

“It will be a ruin,” France predicts blithely, just to make England produce that sound like she has just encountered a hairball. “A derelict ruin, and you shall all have to send Christmas in your London townhouse and never have another grand party again.” No, that is being far too generous to the British. “No, _ever_.”

“Excuse me?” England takes her cheek away from his again, stiffening so he can feel the points of her shoulders against his chest. “What do you _mean_ when you say I shall never have another grand party -”

“ _Non, non_ ,” France tries to placate her gently, cupping her sharp elbows with his palms before she can jab him with those as well, “you mistake my point. You must have first _had_ a grand party before you can host _another_ grand party.”

To no avail. “I _have_ hosted grand parties!”

France attempts to slowly extract himself from his twine around England’s person, suddenly very conscious of all the woman’s many edges, and how his nightshirt is in no way an effective armour. But his point still stands. “I will not deny that your _people_ have, but _you_ , personally? No. Plenty of intimate gatherings over the centuries, and informal gatherings after the signing of treaties, even a few little small parties here and there, but nothing…” A disappointed sigh finishes the sentence for France, a face of _laissez-faire_ to counter England turning about indignantly in his arms, scowling up at him. “How sad.”

“ _Some_ of us like to keep a low profile.” She isn’t poking him. Yet.

“Says the world’s largest empire!”

England doesn’t even bother to question _that_ point, though she does jab a finger into his sternum. (There’s the poking. France could set a clock by her.) “And you need a _reason_ to throw an extravagant party, you wasteful leech.”

What is with these blond Germanics and their obsession with _finance_ …

“...Christmas,” says France, seized with the spark of inspiration.

Contrary to popular belief, England’s eyes do not, in fact, glow in the dark like a cat’s. They _are_ quite lovely feline (and feral) things, to match the Nation who wears them, but France has yet to witness them glow in the darkness of a bedroom or clandestine rural sojourn. (Or so he insists to himself, and firmly puts a few _weird_ incidents with his western island neighbours and their crazy un-Christian folklore out of mind.) They _do_ , however, go terribly, childishly wide when she is taken aback or confused, catching all the light there is to offer and answering with shifting shades of green. “Pardon?”

“ _Christmas_ ,” says France again, and clasps England’s slim hands between his own before she can remember she was trying to poke him. She knows where all the soft flesh between his ribs are, where it hurts the most to be poked and prodded at (mostly because she has slid a knife in there often enough).“ _Noël_. You said you pined for the holiday at home, did you not? When we return back to Europe, throw a party to celebrate your first Christmas at home again.”

England is not convinced, her scowl set atop the lace of her nightgown like a cherry on a cake. “Why the hell would I throw a party just because _you_ want me to throw one -”

France cuts her off with a brief laugh. “I did not say I _wanted_ you to throw one, Angleterre! After all, I believe you are quite incapable of it.” The English do not have a creative bone in their far too _practical_ bodies.

“If I am so _incapable_ as a host, why is it I have not yet made you leapfrog back across the harbour, instead letting you continue fouling up my air?”

“Clearly, because you miss the _horrible_ smog in London.”

France deserves the slap he gets. He knows he does, which is why he does not grab England’s hands when they slip out of his grasp - as if he would deign to scrabble for them anyway -, taking the open-palmed _slap_ to his left cheek with a dignified, ringing sort of silence.

When he turns his head back to his hostess - ah, England is angry with him. She has been angrier, much angrier, with him before, but he has clearly given her offence. Too much needling when England was not in the mood to embroider with him, and they had no overarching quarrel to truly justify it.

Piqued and as pale as a ghost from one of her tall tales, England pushes at him, hard enough that France takes a step back. “France, you have been the most uncivil, monumental _cad_ this evening.”

France’s lips thin, displeased to have _England_ chide him for manners - even if it _might_ be deserved. He will not bring himself to lift his hand to touch his cheek where England slapped him, but he can feel his skin there beginning to burn in the balmy Hong Kong air. “Do you expect civil behaviour from an empire?”

“We are _allies_ ,” England snaps, “but that is _easily_ something that can change. If your empire impedes your civility, perhaps I should do us _both_ a favour and relieve you of it?”

And between them they could raze Europe again, but that is not what France’s emperor wants. War will just breed more strife, more chaos, Europe bankrupted and further splintered than it already is. No, they need unity - unity and _progress_ , so that France can safely stand apart from Britain and pick allies by _choice_ rather than necessity.

So France grits his teeth and acts as as England cannot: like a _gentleman_. “I apologise. I am… I am _bored_ , Angleterre. All this waiting here, out at the end of the world, with all the fuss of my people back at home still thinking and _feeling_ in my head. _Dieu me garde_ , you are all that is to be had here of Europe - and _you_ are _barely Europe_ , so I am…” He shrugs, dropping the weight and weariness from his shoulders. “We have old patterns, you and I. It is easy to slip into them.”

The irritation ebbs from England’s features, threatened by understanding, but she still manages an exasperated: “This is a new world, France.”

“That has such _people_ in it.”

England almost - _almost_ \- smiles, and hides it by glancing back to the window. To the spread of her Hong Kong, to their troops in Kau Lung - and to China, beyond even them. “You must stay vigilant about your civility for a while yet, I fear. China seems to think that if he continues to bury his head in the sand, and wholeheartedly pretend that he does not have the terms of treaties to uphold, we will simply go away. I have been here for far too long to simply _go away_. I will stay here for far longer until I get what I bloody well want - and the longer China makes me wait, the much more it will cost him.”

“If I am too kind to you for too long,” France complains, “my people will think I need committed to your Bedlam. But,” and he dares to close the space between England and himself again, curving his arms about her waist again to remind himself that there _is_ some softness in this Nation-woman, when it is most pleasingly pressed up against him, “I will stay with you.”

He doesn’t trust her to come to a deal with China that will benefit _both_ of them if he leaves her unsupervised.

Copying France earlier, England _hm_ s, noncommittal, but she lets France hold her again - and reaches up with a seemingly affectionate hand to touch France’s cheek.

Right where she slapped him.

The faint pressure smarts _everywhere_ the pads of her fingers touch.

“But. tonight,” she says, and those fingers press a little _harder_ , “not in my room.”

(Bid _adieu_ shortly afterwards - as much as a door closed in one’s face can speak French - France sleeps in the guest room.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical context and interesting stuff:
> 
> In 1859, France and Britain are in the middle of the [Second Opium War](http://militaryhistory.about.com/od/battleswars1800s/p/secondopiumwar.htm)/[Arrow War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Opium_War) against China. Despite trusting each other less than they could throw each other, the French and British had something of a (miraculous) _rapprochement_ in the 1850s, joining together to ally, first, in the [ Crimean](http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/british/victorians/crimea_01.shtml) [War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crimean_War) (against the Russian Empire), and then in the Arrow War against China, attempting to force the Qing Empire to apologise for perceived past slights, establish embassies in their capital, and open more Chinese ports for trade.  
> The British Empire was the largest and most heavily industrialised empire in the world at the time. France was in the middle of its Second Empire, under Napoleon III. There seems to have been a great deal of grudging respect from the French for the strength and practicality of the British - and some worry that if the French Empire did _not_ soon enter into an alliance of some kind with the British, the two empires would go (back) to (disastrous) war. (The two empires did, in fact, start discussing and then sign [ a free-trade treaty](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cobden%E2%80%93Chevalier_Treaty) in December 1859 and January 1860, which helped advance the development of industry in France.)
> 
> Despite being invited, along with France, both the Russian Empire and the United States of America declined to join an alliance with Britain against China. Russia and America both profited from the war regardless - Russia in particular by threatening the Chinese with war on a second front, when the Qing Empire was already losing the Second Opium War. Russia gained land along the Amur river in the [Treaty of Aigun](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treaty_of_Aigun), granting them further access to and influence in the Pacific. Russia and America further profited by the opening of China to Western trade.
> 
> ‘The recently named British Raj’: The Indian Rebellion (May 1857 to June 1858) took place in the middle of the Arrow War, and paused British actions against China for a while to concentrate on quelling the uprising in (the more valuable) India. The rebellion ended company rule in India - and transferred power to the British Crown, the country becoming the new British Raj. More on this later.
> 
> After declining to join with the British and French, the USA had some skirmishes of their own with the Chinese in this period - after which they signed a pact of neutrality. Despite this, in the Battle of the Taku Forts, 24th of June 1859, when British forces - sailing up a previously blocked river and shelling the Taku Forts - got into trouble due to low tide and mud, their ships being damaged and sunk by accurate Chinese cannonfire, the witnessing American Commodore, Josiah Tattnall, was said to have declared _blood is thicker than water_ , breaking neutrality and providing covering fire to protect the British convoy’s retreat.
> 
> Kau Lung = Kowloon. [A photograph of the military encampments.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Kowloon,_Hong_Kong;_military_encampments_%28pic_4_of_6%29_Wellcome_L0067732.jpg)
> 
> [1860s nightgown.](http://blog.fidmmuseum.org/museum/2010/08/nightgowns.html) There are much nicer ones, but the general shape is always the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scotland and England have a discussion. Argument. Thing. This chapter is as equally (not) festive as the first, apologies.
> 
> I feel it prudent to note here that you should never assume that any of the characters are reliable and impartial narrators (Imperial England least of all) and that the opinions of the characters do not reflect the opinion of the author. There are some racist comments and slurs used in this chapters against the Irish, Indians, native peoples of Australia and New Zealand, and the Chinese. And general rudeness about Scotland.

_February, 1860  
Toorak House, City of Melbourne, in the British Crown Colony of Victoria _

 

The summer sun in Australia is a thing so bright it is almost oppressive, its rays heavy when they slide downwards through the windows of the British governor’s house in Victoria, bearing down on England’s shoulders with swathes of tiny dust dancing in the gold. She has moved the chair at her borrowed desk in the study once already, hardly wanting to squint in the light as she reads through the governor’s latest reports on the colony’s progress and missives she has received from the rest of the Empire, but there is nothing to be done about the _other_ oppressive weight dragging down the atmosphere and giving England a building headache behind her eyes - Scotland, on the opposite side of the room and sprawled out in an armchair like a mess of vast felled tree-trunks that have slipped from their pile en-route to the river barge, _broods,_ his own letters abandoned on his lap as he dourly stares a dropped anchor into existence between his sister’s shoulder-blades.

England would politely tell Scotland to desist, but she hardly wants to give her brother the satisfaction of knowing that he has succeeded in getting her attention, let alone managing to actually _distract_ her. In any case, she is refusing to take the burden of opening communications upon herself. Since it is clearly _Scotland_ with the grudge being nursed against his heart, _Scotland_ may be the one who does the work of initiating conversation between them; England will not cut the rod used to beat her own back.

Of course, between both kinds of British stubbornness, the result that they have come to from this mulish arrangement is that neither of the two occupants of the borrowed study have spoken to one another in the past two hours they have both been in the room, the silence blanketing the place thicker than the awful summer heat. Occasionally, the distinctive laughter of a kookaburra sitting on the rooftop breaks through the quiet, soft rolling cackles that builds when other birds fly in to form a devoted chorus around the first, but it is not until the front door of the house is flung open with a resounding _bang_ that _noise_ hits the room, small pounding feet hitting the gravel outside shortly before a wordless yell of _jubilation_ bursts through the air (and startles the kookaburras into silence).

Instead of rising to look out of the window, England puts down her pen and consults her pocket-watch, its little golden owl charm swinging from her waistcoat’s buttons as she checks the time.

Just gone three o'clock, of course.

“Bairns have gone outside for airing before tea,” says Scotland needlessly, lolling his head back on his seat to apparently regard the ceiling panels. His only current redeeming grace is that his clothes are still neatly tucked in - with his sack coat long since discarded, sleeves rolled up, and poor posture, he looks very near to being a dissolute and drunken wastrel, particularly because he, and England and two of their young colonies with him, is a guest in another man’s home.

Despite all her annoyance with her brother, England’s lips twitch. She looks to her side at him. “They’re not _dusty mattresses,_ Scotland.”

“Could be,” Scotland replies, “if the mattresses were stuffed with a bunch of angry flea-bitten cats. They yowl worse than Wales does when you say owt about his sheep.”

As if agreeing with Scotland, a _second_ yell joins in with the first - sounding as though it is making some attempt to out-do the first -, creating a cacophony of chaos that England would expect to hear in the middle of a _jungle,_ not in the middle of newly-built civilisation, floating up to the study from a fresh-mowed _lawn._

Scotland is used to the murderous shrieking created by jungles _and_ small children. It comes from his own explorations, plucking up tiny tearaways across the Empire by the scruffs of their mucky misbehaving _necks_ to reprimand them (or, more frequently, at least carry them out of his own ear-shot and deposit them in whatever shit they’ve made or found in front of England for _her_ to deal with), built upon the solid foundations of his own less-than-salubrious childhood, running just as wild and loud in the fields and lakes and forests of their island home. Thus armed - or wearily prepared - by history, he lifts his head up again, regarding England directly. “See?”

The children really _are_ being exceptionally noisy that day. It will not do if it carries on for much longer; the governor, currently one Sir Henry Barkly, is being most kind in allowing the Kirkland ‘brothers’ and their two young charges to lodge with him and his daughter whilst they are in Victoria, and it would not do to distress or inconvenience him, nor give him the impression that the lords Kirkland are raising a couple of _hooligans._ (Truly, Sir Barkly has little _choice_ about either hosting or arranging accommodations for his guests, as a lesser servant of the British government than a Nation, but, unlike some others that England has lodged with upon need over the years, behaves as though the company is there by invitation rather than imposition. For those that do not _know_ them for who and what they are, both England and Scotland carry papers from the Crown that state that they are - always - on vital important diplomatic business for Her Majesty’s government, wherever they are within the world, and so are to be aided and accommodated in all their needs and desires by all those of the British Empire.)

England pushes back her chair, rising from her seat to go look out the window. “Kindly refrain from stuffing mattresses with cats, flea-bitten or otherwise.”

Past the road leading up to the house, the lawn in front of the governor’s home is a vast swathe of dusty green. When England’s eyes have adjusted to the sunlight she can see four figures upon it: two of them quite familiar to her, as they are two of her own British colonies, New Zealand, whom they call Christopher - or Kit, when he is not making a nuisance of himself -, and the older New South Wales, who answers to no-one unless he is called Jamie - except England, who is charged with sternly shaking him down more often than not with a unyielding _James._ The two boys (as expected) are the ones making all the noise, chasing each other around the grass whilst the governor’s ten year-old daughter, Miss Emily Blanche (called simply Miss Blanche by all) regards them both with some consternation. The young lady’s governess, Miss Mary Jones, can apparently do nothing to calm the two rowdy boys, her entreaties for James and Christopher to quieten unheard over the colonies’ own din.

Even then England might have left it - any governess worth her salt should be capable of regaining order over two small children, even if they _are_ the kin of Nations, especially once New South Wales and New Zealand tire themselves out -, but when she shifts her weight slightly, changing the slant of sunlight into her eyes, she can see New South Wales is running about with a metre’s length of rope in his hands. No… not rope, for New Zealand looks too interested for it to be rope, and Miss Blanche and Miss Jones both look too horrified when they see it, Blanche jumping up with a shrill shriek to move away from the boys, hiding behind her governess’ sweeping skirts.

Rope should not twist as it does in New South Wales’ hands at Blanche’s scream, a blunt head lifting itself up into the air.

Rope does not _move._

 _Snake,_ England surmises rather distantly, and then (because she has _talked_ with her colonies about their dangerous wildlife and the simple fact that yes, even if _they_ will recover from being bitten by venomous creatures, most ordinary humans they associate with will _not_ , because native wildlife only loves the native Nation and few others), _I’m going to tan their hides._

The study window opens with a _screech_ of rusting hinges, swinging wide when England pushes it open, planting her spare hand on the sill and leaning out like a wrathful thunderbolt from the blue.

“ _James and Christopher Kirkland!”_

Still running, New South Wales and New Zealand come to a startled halt so fast New Zealand falls over, tripping over his own feet and landing with face and belly in the dirt, the yelling of both children dying with an ungraceful _oomph_ . New South Wales fares a little better, but he _still_ almost manages to, firstly, trip over New Zealand, and, secondly, drop the snake in his hands on his ‘brother’. Some mid-air juggling and the fact the Australian wildlife really, _really_ loves New South Wales spares either boy from a snakebite, but New Zealand gets a foot in his ribs and _yelps,_ immediately swiping for his playmate’s ankle to drag the other colony down with him.

 _“Christopher!”_ England snaps again, the ringing tones she uses on her ships and across a battlefield, seeing the troublesome boy’s fingers snared about New South Wales’ ankle. New Zealand desists, reluctantly freeing the other colony’s ankle and picking his scowl up out of the grass, but England has to immediately switch her attention back to her _other_ charge, since, by the look on his face and the way he’s attempting to stuff a _snake_ down the front of his shirt, New South Wales seems to think he’s going to wriggle his way out of trouble by hiding the evidence whilst she’s distracted. _“James, put that damn thing_ down!”

Caught red-handed, England’s Australian colony turns large, wounded eyes up to the study window. “But, Eng-”

“Put it _down,_ ” England repeats, curtly cutting the boy short before he can come out with any plea _or_ address her by the wrong name for company while he’s at it. “On the _ground,_ James. Away from the house and where you _will not find it again,_ do you understand?”

New South Wales’ expression turns as sulky as New Zealand’s.

 _“Now,_ ” England insists, and New South Wales stomps off to release his snake.

England can feel her headache returning with a vengeance, her temple throbbing as she sweeps her gaze across New South Wales’ retreating back, New Zealand’s dark _scowl_ as he rubs off a smudge of dirt on his cheek, Blanche’s frightened hands still clutching at her governess, and Miss Jones -

“Miss Jones,” says England, a great deal more cordially as the woman’s gaze lifts from worrying over Blanche’s head and up to her master’s guest, “I believe it might be best to bring the children inside a little early today? I apologise for any distress caused to you or Miss Blanche by my charges’ ill-thought attempts to interact with the local wildlife; I believe the sun may be a little too hot for them today, and it has put them out of sorts. Perhaps a stint in bed without tea might remind them of their commitment to becoming true gentlemen, and the proper manner with which one interacts with one’s teacher and young ladies, _regardless_ of the heat?”

The governess looks relieved at the suggestion, dipping her head in acknowledgement. “...As you say, Sir Kirkland.”

“I shall come have a talk with them this evening, once they have both cooled their heads.” It is a threat and promise both to New Zealand and all his scowling; the boys had _better_ be on better behaviour when England visits them in the evening, or there will be further hell.

England sighs, the sun too bright and the children of her outflung empire being too _difficult_ to do anything but make her headache _pound._ There are riots in the Australian gold fields, rebellion from the native New Zealanders, resentment in India, war, war, tedious _war_ throughout China, and the machinery in the factories and mills of Britain toils in ceaseless thudding _rhythm_ that England can hear throbbing through her body and her bones whenever she closes her eyes.

( _No rest for the wicked,_ a darkly amused voice whispers at the back of England’s mind, and... perhaps it is a sign of insanity, or just that she has been allied with the frog for too long, because it sounds like _France._ )

An empire must handle a dozen problems at a time - and so England dips her head very slightly to Miss Jones on the lawn, in the hope that manners might make light of the situation and so stop the woman having a heart attack about today’s little serpentine incident. “Once more,” England says, “my apologies for their disgraceful behaviour,” and shuts the study window.

Although he has shifted his abandoned papers from his lap to the side-table by his seat, Scotland hasn’t moved from his chair. His silence sits there _loudly,_ his gaze steady on England’s nape, more ticklish than her hair that is slowly growing out again, tied back with a ribbon.

“Snake,” England explains shortly and turns, to get the itch of Scotland eyes off her back.

“Big one?” asks Scotland, a seemingly disinterested rumble, and reaches up to rub at some of the sunburn flaking off his cheek. A souvenir from Africa, where England had summoned him from: the sun splotching his skin with an angry red, picking out the dark copper to match it in his hair.

“Big enough,” says England, and resists the urge to scratch at her _own_ sunburn. Earnt on the clipper between Canton and Melbourne, when she had been lax about her buttons and gloves, red now encircles her wrists like cuffs beneath the now deliberately longer sleeves of her shirt.

“Venomous?”

“Most likely.” England sighs again then, stepping away from the window (out of the _light_ ) so she can go to the second armchair in the room, collapsing into it with a distinct lack of grace. (One of many benefits of passing as a man: no slow navigation of one’s hoop skirt.) She doesn’t want to go back to the desk just yet, to _work,_ as she has been sent nothing as sweet as a Valentine, the thudding in her head too loud for dealing with numbers and military movements and Russia’s roundabout French. “We _must_ do something about South Wales’ predilection for dangerous beasts.” It simply will not _do_ if the boy accidentally murders someone in their host’s household with one of his creatures.

“Set up a zoo,” Scotland suggests, still far too disinterested considering the _seriousness_ that is one of their younger charges running wild with lethal animals. _Still_ he will not discuss why he is so annoyed with England, so determined to make her _work_ in all her conversations with him - and still England refuses to broach the topic for him.

It is a mark of just how vexing England’s headache has become that she cannot summon enough strength to even glare at Scotland, much though the wretch deserves it. (They should probably ring for a maid and something cold to drink - lemonade, or a sweet chilled cordial.) “I don’t know where he gets it from,” she says tiredly, letting her arms slip over the arms of her chair to dangle towards the floor; “none of the _others_ are so determined to commit murder-suicide with their wildlife. Canada used to cry at _geese_.”

Scotland shrugs, the cotton of his shirt (spun and woven in his own mills) dragging against the cushion behind him. “In the poor lassie’s defence, she has some _feckin_ nasty geese.” A pause, as Scotland muddles through his own thoughts in the heat swimming through the air. “And a polar bear.”

“Hand-reared,” England drones, because Canada’s greedy pet polar bear has been the go-to excuse for monsters being brought into the house by British colonies the world over. “From a cub. And with the special sentience to prove it. That is _quite_ different to grabbing whatever random devil creature walks, swims, flies or _crawls_ past you that day and bringing it home to play with.”

“The lad’s not come to any harm yet,” says Scotland, with all the implacable impracticality of one who used to wrestle _wolves_ when they went for his throat in the cold lean winters of their past.

Through monumental effort, England narrows her eyes at him. Things have progressed since those days, nights of blood on the ice and hot breath panting like smoke in the air: one need no longer be as _savage_ as nature to overcome it. “Just because something has not _yet_ happened does not mean that it will _never_ happen.”

Scotland just dismisses it with another shrug; go tell it to the mountains. “The beasts love him, just like the beasts of our own lands love us.”

“But _are_ these his lands?” England persists, since the thought has been nagging at her. She drags her arms back up against the weight of warmth and gravity so she can rest her elbows beside her, without the pull of the world on her aching joints. God _damn_ this heat. “His beasts? We named him New South Wales, and this is _Victoria._ ”

England has called Scotland _stupid_ a great deal over the centuries _-_ and many other things besides, some of them even meaning the same thing -, which, whilst justified in the middle of one of their mud-slinging matches, brawls, fights, or outright _wars,_ is not entirely fair to him. (They have never been fair to each other.) The great lummox might be a little vulgar with his speech, _entirely_ ungenteel, delicate as a hammer and utterly _blind_ when it comes to choosing which amphibious cesspit to lay his clumsy affections in (Scotland, England had rather archly noted, had not received a Valentine in _his_ correspondence either), but he has a canny head on his shoulders, when he cares to use it. Scotland would not have been _half_ as much a nuisance throughout his sister’s history had he not had some intelligence rattling around inside his thick skull, lamentable as that is to admit. England’s people, as well, would not have bought the kingdom to their north had they not thought it a sound investment - and now the industries of Scotland are productively labouring on, soft cotton and cloth and dyes, shining railroads and ships and trains.

Scotland is not _entirely_ without wits - and so it is he draws out the thread of England’s meaning quickly enough, though his expression still twists up like his brain is grinding clockwork. “...You think we’re missing a bairn?”

“New South Wales. Tasmania. Swan River. South Australia. Victoria. Queensland.” England lists them all as a closing hand held upright, beginning with her palm, then her curling thumb, her fingers falling one by one to make a fist. “These are all our Australian colonies, but we only have _one_ child to show for them.”

The child they had found first.

Scotland stretches out his legs in his seat, long and brooding as an evening shadow, his muscles shifting under the cloth of his trousers. “So mebbe he’s the only one there _is_ for them.” On a continent so large, whose interior is still mostly a dark unknown to them? “Canada was in pieces ‘til ‘41, and yet there was just one of her.”

Badly phrased, but England understands what Scotland means. She purses her lips anyway, mulling it over as her fingers, once more, uncurl. So many small hands through time have fitted into the lines on her palm.

“Besides,” Scotland adds, “the lad seems to feel the people the way he should if they’re his.”

“He’s a _child,_ Scotland.” England frowns. And New South Wales - _James -_ is an emotive child at that, who runs off on the mildest whim suggested to him. “He’d claim a dunghill if he thought it important and someone else wanted it.” England sighs - and realises, distantly, that she is copying Scotland’s posture, the tense-relax motion of long legs, loose-limbed Nations spreading out into the world. “I don’t know. I haven’t _felt_ any new Nations in the Australian colonies…”

Although, on some nights when the moon is as full as ship’s sails in the wind, there is such eerie, mournful _singing_ on the breeze. The cadence rises and drops, falls away into nothing before humming again, the hairs prickling along England’s arms, on the nape of her neck. Almost the same as -

“Probably better that way,” Scotland grunts, low enough that it seems scraped up from the depth of England’s memories, dark as half-forgotten centuries of old. “Less kin to lose.”

Children replacing mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers tearing each other apart with words and deeds and bloody knives and claws -

(‘ _Anglaland, how many brothers and sisters do you have?’_

_‘I-’_

England dreams of green-eyed children in the apple orchards, memories she inherited (stole) from people who now only live in her. Many backgrounds, one people: _English._ Climbing the apple trees alone.)

Despite the heat of the day, there is a sensation like cool _sludge_ sliding slowly down England’s spine, a treacle of coldness that settles in a heavy knot in her belly. “Just watch him,” she says, and has to turn her head aside to clear the thickness in her throat. “New Zealand as well. And try to get them home in one piece without dropping one or both of them overboard.”

With those words, the mood in the study shifts from contemplative back to the begrudging sourness that had weighed it down before the children had run outside. Scotland is displeased with England - nothing new there -, resentful of her wealth and influence, her position at the top of their empire. And the way she _uses_ that position, since England sees what has to be done for their future and arranges matters - arranges _them -_ so it _is_ done.

But even if it is for his own good, Scotland dislikes being told what to do. England, however, could not care less if her siblings dislike their tasks so long as they _do_ them - no matter if what inspires them is kindness or cruelty, fondness or spite, loyalty or self-interest. It is all simple common sense.

And so it had been common sense to summon Scotland out of the African colonies, currently a rather stable area of the empire, to bring him to Australia, receiving the two young British colonies of New South Wales and New Zealand and removing the boys to the safety of Great Britain. England cannot go too far from China with the _endless_ war still dragging on; Wales is tied up with handling domestic matters in the Isles, and Ireland cannot be trusted for anything other than resentfully providing men for wars, her wretched simple people desperate for work and food after famine after famine. Scotland’s work in Africa had been good for the health of the empire and the moral of their colonies and people - but it had been non-vital, and so it is that Scotland must be the one to play nanny, or at the very least _guard dog_.

Australasia is at a critical point. The Qing Empire is a shadow of its former self, drugged and debased after being called out on its ludicrous _bluff_ , and the Chinese are poor and shamed, reviled wherever they go in the world looking for work. The Raj in India is still growing accustomed to its new administration directly under the Crown, droning sad songs about the foolish dead from their pointless rebellion and glaring with hot eyes at every civilised soul who sets foot upon their soil. The native people of New Zealand will _insist_ on quibbling every point of every treaty made with them, stirring up war and bloodlust against the British settlers, and the gold discovered in the fields of Australia has brought every slit-eyed rat out of Asia that can squeeze passage on a ship, riots springing up on the fields between the vermin and the descendants of drunkards and thieves.

Children are too _impressionable_ to be left in this breeding ground for trouble - especially children England has some hope for, with the correct physiology for children born entirely of the civilised world, an almost immediate grasp of _English_ showing the purity and sturdiness of their roots. So New South Wales and New Zealand must go, leave this seething pot and be taken somewhere where they can have an eye kept on them, schooled in the British manner before some silly little squabble might turn their heads.

There is no time to entertain Scotland’s petty feelings, such small shrewish things for a man so large.

England draws herself up straight in her chair, correcting her earlier poor posture and putting her headache firmly aside, momentary weakness concluded. “When you get home, I want you to start having plans drawn up to renovate the main house.”

“Reno-” Scotland starts, leaning forward in his chair. And then: “what the fuck _for?_ ”

“It has been a long while since we renovated; some of the rooms are _horribly_ outmoded.” Never mind some of the furnishings in those rooms (although certain - Spanish - pieces are _certainly_ being kept as trophies). England sniffs. “How can we claim to be the most civilised of our kin, and yet dwell in a medieval shack?”

“...It’s hardly a bloody _shack._ ”

“Regardless.” England has plans. “I want you to begin with the kitchens, since that is the room most in need of renovations. Call in a few architects, and have them consult with the head staff. The cooks will know best what is _wrong,_ and the architects should know what is more fashionable now. Added, kitchens hardly need a sense of aesthetic, so even _you_ cannot botch up all the proposed designs.”

Scotland draws himself up as well, his chest inflating with all the hot air he can grasp at short notice. “And how do you suppose we should all feed ourselves while the kitchen’s getting done in and done up?”

As though England is going to allow them to _starve._

“Go to the townhouse in London, of course.” Simple. Although… England considers the arrangement for a moment. “Mm, you may as well get the dining room done with the kitchens, so food service will be uninterrupted for moving back in again. We have a larger family than we used to, so if the wall could be taken down between there and the Blue Parlour -”

Scotland interrupts: “You want rid of the Blue Parlour?”

A ground-floor room. Cold and depressingly-furnished. “Nobody _likes_ the Blue Parlour.” England never uses it, not even for the people she dislikes. Her own drawing room is a _much_ more welcoming place (regardless of what _certain individuals_ say about the soft seascape watercolours on its walls).

Scotland is working himself up - his sunburn is getting splotchier. “ _Ireland_ likes the Blue Parlour.”

“Ireland can like somewhere else, and we can all have a much bigger dining room. In blue, if needs must.”

Honestly, even with the current building’s layout, there are _plenty_ of rooms other than the Blue Parlour that Ireland can use to withdraw to, and England will - _gladly -_ set one of them aside for her sister’s private use if it means Ireland will stop stalking the house’s hallways like a vengeful wraith. (Besides, the irrational woman can hardly set her heart on keeping _just that one room_ when she claims to hate the house as a whole.)

Scotland’s brows draw down like dark smoke over a fire, the strength of his accent slipping into his words. “Do ye want to rub her face in it?”

“ _Red,_ then,” says England, and can hear the annoyance beginning to colour her own speech to answer it. Does this matter _now?_ The architects should have an opinion as well, and ones better informed than Scotland’s. “Red, with some nice dark wood panelling. That would give a very warming feel, don’t you think?”

Scotland does not answer her, throwing himself back rather aggressively into the back of his seat.

England has his compliance then. “Send me the names and contact details of anyone you hire.”

Scotland’s jaw locks. “Don’t trust me to get a _wall_ knocked down?”

“Of course I do. It’s the building things up again part that has always seemed to trouble you. I will grant your work is very solid, very _dependable,_ but the aesthetic…” Oh, England does not want an argument. _More_ of an argument. She has too much of a headache for it, the heat swaddling its hammering close within the confines of her skull. But Scotland _will_ argue with everything, and her own tongue runs away with her impatience sometimes…

England sighs, breathing out as much of her irritation as she can currently manage, and acts like the bigger person.

One of them has to.

“ _No_ , Scotland. It’s that I want to expand other areas of the house as well, and would prefer to be in direct correspondence with the architects for parts of it, to be sure they have understood the finer details.”

“And we don’t get a say in it.”

England is going to commit fratricide. Again. “Of _course_ you do.” Her smile sets like _rigor mortis_ on her cheeks, because she is quite done with discussing this right now. She still has paperwork to read through and reply to, and two colonies to scold later about terrifying humans and handling venomous _snakes._ (And she _still_ has no cool lemonade to drink.) “Didn’t you just advise me on the colour of our new grand dining room?”

It will actually be a _relief_ to get back to Hong Kong. _War_ is easier to handle than family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of this fic, Toorak House (built in 1849) was the home of the governor of the colony of Victoria, the colony’s first Government House. After the death of the merchant who had the building constructed, Toorak House was leased to the Victorian government, and was used by a succession of five governors until 1874. In 1860, the governor was one Sir Henry Barkly, a fairly recent widower who lived at Toorak House with his daughter, Emily Blanche Barkly (born 1850) and their staff. Sir Barkly became the Victorian governor in 1856 - and had the highest salary for a governor throughout the empire at the time, as the post was considered incredibly difficult!   
>  Emily Blanche seems to have indeed been known as Blanche, as she and her new stepmother (Sir Barkly remarried in July 1860) became keen horticulturists and studiers of plants throughout the world as they moved from country to country as Sir Barkly was posted to different parts of the empire.   
>  Blanche’s governess, likewise, _was_ actually one Miss Mary Jones - as Miss Jones, later than the events of this story, sadly posthumously, [made the newspapers for saving Miss Blanche’s life from drowning](https://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=1300&dat=19340514&id=eRwRAAAAIBAJ&sjid=f5UDAAAAIBAJ&pg=5761,1341290&hl=en), dying in the endeavour.
> 
> The provinces of Upper Canada and Lower Canada were united into one (the Province of Canada/United Province of Canada/United Canadas) in 1841. The move was recommended to the British Government in the 1840 Durham Report, which sought to identify the reasons behind the rebellions in (both) Canada(s) from 1837-1838. The union was a fairly deft piece of controlling and politicking both provinces, buoying the failing economy of Upper Canada whilst swamping the vote of the French/Francophile presence in Lower Canada, as both provinces, after the union, were afforded the same sway in voting despite vast population differences.   
>  These arrangements lasted until the Canadian Confederation in 1867.
> 
> Australian colonies: the British colony of _New South Wales_ was established in 1788, on what we now call Australia, but at the time was popularly known as _New Holland_. (The continent of Australia continued to be known as New Holland up until the mid 1850s.) Following a failed attempt to settle in an area that is now in Victoria, a new colony was established in Van Diemen’s Land in 1803, after exploration of the island proved it was, in fact, an island. (Van Diemen’s Land was renamed _Tasmania_ in 1856, as people felt the previous name was too associated with criminal elements - the island being used as a penal settlement until 1877 -, and sounded far too much like the word _demon_.) The colony of _Queensland_ began life as a settlement in 1824, becoming a colony separate from New South Wales in 1859. The Swan River Colony was established in 1829, and officially renamed _Western Australia_ in 1832. The colony of _South Australia_ was settled in 1836. The land originally designated the Port Phillip District in 1834 later became the colony of _Victoria_ , in 1851.   
>  The territory originally claimed for Britain as New South Wales was incredibly vast and vague. Out of the original ‘New South Wales’ came South Australia, _New Zealand_ , Victoria and Queensland.   
>  The British laid claim to the entire Australian continent in 1826.
> 
> [There was a gold rush in the 1850s in the Melbourne area/young colony of Victoria.](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Melbourne#1850s_Gold_Rush) Many people came looking for wealth or a new start after fleeing the troubles in India and China - and many of them met the same problems with racism and discrimination as they had in their previous homes.
> 
> New Zealand causing trouble, or: [The First Taranaki War](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/First_Taranaki_War).
> 
> The leading industry in Scotland at this time was the spinning and weaving of cotton. When the American Civil War cut off supplies of raw cotton in 1861, the industry took a huge blow and never recovered. Luckily for the Scottish, developments had been made in the late 1820s in the heavier industries that relied on British coal and iron resources - and so Scotland became a centre for engineering, producing ships and trains for the empire.


End file.
